Her Smile

Three weeks out from the Dark M**o N**e Winter Solstice Swim. Here is what preparation looks like at almost 64.

I believe the condition of your body is an indication of the type of person you are in everything else you do.

Not because thin is better. Not because young is better. But because the discipline required to maintain your strength, your energy, and your vitality after 40 is the same discipline that shows up in your work, your relationships, your decisions, and your presence.

In three weeks I am swimming in eleven-degree water in the dark of winter.

Completely n**e. With three thousand people. At almost 64.

This is what my preparation looks like:

Her Energy - I train six days a week. Not the typical straining that you expect. What I do is very specific with intention.

Her Waistline - I eat intentionally. I fuel. There is a difference.

Her Skincare - Top Medical Skincare with professional-grade results, every day.

Her Makeup - Products placed strategically every day. Not for anyone else. For me.

Her Colour - I know what colours to wear and where to wear them. Every day I dress as I mean it.

Her Style - Structured, intentional, signature. My wardrobe earns its place.

These are the six steps of the Her Smile Empowerment Pathway. I do not ask any woman to do something I do not do myself.

The quiz tells you which step is your most important starting point right now.

Two minutes. No sales call.

Link in comments.

Her name was Elizabeth.

She was born in 1933 in Port Elizabeth, South Africa. One of seven children. Four girls. Three of them got breast cancer.

I was seventeen when my mother was diagnosed. We were living in Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe.

I went with my father to the hospital the day of her surgery. We sat in the car and waited. When it was over, my dad went in to speak to the doctors. Then he walked back to me and he sobbed. And sobbed. It was the first time in my life I had ever seen my father cry.

They had removed her right breast. The doctors gave her three months to live.

I was studying my beauty specialist diploma at the time. Every morning I went to my studies. Every afternoon I went to my mother. I washed her hair and put it in rollers. I did her nails. I gave her facials. I waxed and tinted her eyebrows. I gave her body massages.

It was a way for me to practise. But what it was for her, was food for her soul.

My father refused to accept the diagnosis. He found Professor Faulkson at the University of Pretoria's oncology department. The Professor gave my mother a sixty percent chance of survival. And so began thirteen-hour drives to South Africa and back. Again and again. For years.

At my wedding in 1982, my mother was wearing a wig. She was in and out of hospital and surgery for another twenty-five years.

She never complained. Not once. Not through the chemotherapy. Not through the radiation. Not through the operations that never seemed to end. She just kept getting up.

She was a beautiful woman. She loved fashion. She used to say that in her next life she was going to be a model and a fashion designer.

At the very end, my brother came to take her to hospital for the last time. She asked him to wait. She forced herself to stand. She walked to her bathroom. She put on her lipstick. And her mascara. Then she let him take her to the car.

She was unconscious for two weeks. She woke on New Year's Day 2007. My sister held the phone to her ear. I asked her if she wanted me to come. She said no. She wanted me to remember her when she was well. When she was looking good.

Her Smile exists because of Elizabeth.

Every woman I work with, I am, in some way, still sitting beside my mother's hospital bed. Still doing her nails. Still telling her she is beautiful.

Because she was.

On the 22nd of June, the winter solstice, I will be doing the Dark M**o N**e Winter Swim in Hobart. It is mum's birthday. I am going for her. For the woman who put on lipstick before she let her son carry her out the door.

I was told twice to have both breasts removed.

At 19. And again at 57.

Both times I said no.

I come from a family where breast cancer is not a distant possibility. It is a pattern. My mother was diagnosed when I was 17 and given three months to live. Three of her four sisters got breast cancer. I carry that genetic risk.

For 33 years I have had annual mammograms. Every single year.

In 2025 my radiologist looked at my scans and said - Has anyone told you that you have the most amazing pectoral muscles?

That made me want to jump for joy! And it made me think...

The body I chose to keep has been worth keeping.

I did not remove my breasts at 19 because I wanted to breastfeed my children.

I did not remove my breasts at 57 because I believed that how I lived, how I moved, how I ate, how I trained, how I showed up every single day mattered.

I still believe that.

I am 63. I train six days a week. I keep myself lean, and I am stronger than I have ever been.

I am not sharing this to be brave.

I am sharing it because so many women I work with are waiting for their health, their body, their confidence to be perfect before they start looking after themselves.

There is no perfect moment.

There is only the decision you make today.

If you are ready to start, take the free Her Smile Quiz.

Two minutes. No sales call. Just clarity on where to begin.

Link in the comments.

Happy Mother’s Day to my amazing daughter Kirsten who does it all with so much love.

These three are lucky to have you.

And I am lucky to have you too.

❤️❤️❤️

Happy Mother’s Day, Mum.

Her name was Elizabeth.

She was born in 1933. She loved fashion. She visited her dressmaker, a tiny Italian woman called Mrs Ouberto, who made our clothes as children and made my wedding dress.

She said in her next life she would be a model and a fashion designer.

She was given three months to live when I was seventeen.

She lived for another twenty-five years.

She never complained.

Not once.

Not through the chemotherapy.
Not through the surgeries.
Not through the pain that never seemed to end.

She just kept getting up.

At the very end, when my brother came to take her to hospital for the last time, she asked him to wait.

She walked to her beautiful bathroom.

She put on her lipstick.
And her mascara.

Then she let him carry her to the car.

Everything I do, every woman I work with, every lesson I teach about showing up for yourself is because of her.

Her Smile exists because Elizabeth refused to disappear.

Happy Mother’s Day to every woman who taught someone how to keep going.

And to every daughter who learned everything from watching her mother survive.

This one is for you, Mum.

Elizabeth Van Rensburg — 1933 to 2007